Rtu
by kingcecil
Summary: Peter Pan disappeared and took the fairies with him, now the Lost Boys are out to conclude a ritual that has burdened them for decades.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter one: Jim**

It was quiet enough that she could hear her footsteps, each one in turn as her moccasins shuffled across the snow packed ground. Her breath came out in billowing, silver clouds from between her chapped lips and she knew that she had to stop the way her heart hammered madly in her chest; threatening to burst through bone and blood and flitter away just as all the fairies had done years prior. Neverwood had grown quieter since they had left with the last of the laughter and took with them everything good, she wanted to blame _him_, she really did, but that seemed moot; _he_ had been gone for years before the fairies decided to scatter and join the stars lodged in the firmament between worlds. She glances upward, black flint eyes cold and emotionless before one scarred hand grabs at the deerskin hood to yank it up over her head in order to shield her from the sky blinking warily down on her. Bitterness burned in her stomach, made her sick enough that she gags and sputters and coughs for a moment – there is a shiver that runs down her spine as she glares down at the snow, at the red and orange leaves tangled beneath and she remembers too many things that seize up her lungs.

There was nothing left, in her opinion, nothing but loneliness in every square inch of the world since _he_ had left them those many years ago; how many she was not exactly sure, it felt like a lifetime when she sat in the darkness of her hut with no one left to keep her company. The Piccaninny Tribe had died out through war and famine and plague, she was all that remained, known as the Skeleton Queen to what was left of her kin in the southern and northern tribes; those lucky few who had managed to endure through the onslaught of the past several years. It seemed funny that time was so relevant to her now, when it used to be nothing more than a silly notion brought from another world – she smiles, the rarest curl of her broad mouth that makes the skin around her eyes wrinkle. Slowly snowflakes begin to flutter around her, catching on her bronze cheeks and dark eyelashes and she blinks as she stretches her long fingers out to let flakes land on the pads of her fingers; they instantly melt, she laughs. It is an altogether strange sound, she thinks, to hear that laugh when there is so much that caused her pain; when her entire life had been spent waiting for _him_ in war and grief and sadness.

"Tiger Lilly," whispers a voice and she closes her hand into a fist that drops limply at her side before whirling around to peer darkly at a boy standing a few yards away. He watches her keenly with bright blue eyes and a mop of sandy hair, his face is sharp as he tilts his chin down – he is thin for his age, which she assumes is somewhere between fourteen or fifteen, and he is dressed in rather plain clothes that are too tight for him. His trousers are rolled up at the hem with a button down tucked into the waist; the suspenders appear to pinch him because whenever he moves there is a sort of half-grimace on his pale face and he wears no shoes on his feet.

Tiger Lilly watches him as he comes closer, surveying the wiry muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt and how he seems taller; the curve of his jaw less feminine than before. She blinks incredulously at him for a moment as she crosses her arms over her chest, feels the biting wind on her cheeks and against her mouth and this lets her know she is not dreaming – that he is standing there across from her in the dark woods with the trees like bare bones rattling and the snow falling softly around them. He seems to stare at her in a strange, uneven way that makes her skin tingle and her eyes flutter. "Jim? Is that you? You look – you look so different."

He does not say anything at first simply ducks his head and blushes; he had always been shy, always the more humble out of the _Lost Boys _and Tiger Lilly had admired him for that. Finally he lifts his cool eyes back up to her and there is a charming smile on his mouth, which Tiger Lilly suddenly decides is an attractive mouth. "Yes, it's me, who else would it be?" He says softly as he reaches up a slender hand to tuck hair behind his ears and there is a moment where he seems to roll his shoulders forward as if to protect himself from her. Tiger Lilly scrunches her pugged nose at his mild sarcasm, rocking back on her heels to show her disproval for everything that he is; that he has become because not days prior he had been so terribly young and perfect. Now he was this, whatever this was, and she felt he had been ruined beyond all measure.

Carefully she extends a leathery hand out to grab him by an ear, which sends him doubling over with a howl as he swats her wrist. Tiger Lilly does not flinch at his touch, every stinging slap only makes her grasp that much harder until his face is nearly touching the snow. "What news have they gathered and why was it so important as to bring me down from the Red Skull Mountains this early?" Her voice is deep and raspy and not quite as girlish as it had once been, she is a different Tiger Lilly than what some inhabitants would remember her to be – not this boy who would only know her as this husk. He would not remember when she was young and beautiful with bright red feathers in her long hair, how she had been the envy of every squaw and every brave had wanted her hand in marriage.

Jim howls once more as he writhes to her touch, his knees are partially buckled and his hips slung back so that he resembles a contortionist out of one of those stories in the Black Book kept in the Underground library; he had been told that they were stories from Mother Wendy decades ago. He often wondered what it might be like to have a mother, he does not remember his own nor how he had gotten to Never-land in the first place – Tiger Lilly told him it was by chance that he had come here and that he should not question good things lest he wanted them to go away. Jim had never asked again, at least not out loud where everyone could hear him. "Ouch, ouch," he gurgles, "Woodlyn said he received confirmation from the radio yesterday that it was true; secure; whatever they call it!"

With that Tiger Lilly releases the boy, who straightens his spine and rubs his ear between two fingers with a sort of hard edged look on his face that she barely even notices. Instead, she pushes back the hood on her head and looks back up at the sky above them – the snow has stopped, for now, and the stars twinkle impishly between the dark clouds. It had been months since she had even thought about that old radio in the Underground, she had known the _Lost Boys_ had been working on it, figuring it out piece by piece but she had no idea that they had actually _fixed_ it – were using it. The last time she had saw it was when _he_ had brought it from London and showed them how to use the dials, _he_ promised it would tell them stories while _he_ was gone but all they ever received was static; this sort of guttural, grinding noise that only set her teeth on edge. So she had stopped coming to listen in hopes it would someday work and now that she has found that it does, well, she feels that familiar drumming in her chest; the kind that makes her place a hand over her heart and clutch the furs tightly as if they were a lifeline to pull her out from nostalgia.

"Jim, take me to Woodlyn." Her words are breathy and light and she looks at him over her shoulder, noticing the bull-elk just adjacent to their left as he sniffs idly at the snow; his antlers are proud and wide and tangled with ivy that has since died in the cold temperatures. She looks at the animal and he lifts his head, tilts it so that one of his dark eyes catches hers and they stare at one another for the longest moment in the dark – she remembers what it was like to hunt and to chase and now it was starting all over again. Her eyes snap away from the elk and the creature trots over the bank into the valley, his sudden bugle causing Jim to jump before he shakes his head – pushes hair and snow from his face in a relieved sort of way that makes his shoulders sag.

For a moment he looks at her and she looks at him and then he holds out a pale hand, he takes her darker one, entwining their awkward fingers together – and they run far and fast and desperate through the snowy Neverwood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two: Woodlyn**

It had been a long, dark winter in Neverland that seemed as if it would never end. Every day passed with an iron colored sky and every night was even more bitterly cold than the previous – the animals were hiding in their dens and holes and it was becoming increasingly harder to find food. It had been ages since the last mermaid had been caught, flayed like fish to feed the hungry children and when her blood had been spilt the rest of her kind made a vow to have their revenge; they sunk deep beneath the Lagoon into the sea caves and there they waited until some foolish boy would come to disturb them. Rumors were passed amongst the woods, between the trees, that the mermaids had evolved into something new; with sharp teeth and claws and eerie voices that sounded like grinding stones. Since then the Lost Boys had not been allowed out near the ocean, confined to the woods and deserts and mountains by order of their self-proclaimed king.

Woodlyn sits on his makeshift throne with his spindly legs crossed and in his nimble fingers turns a pendant, it is comprised of several thin discs surrounding a core made from a blue stone; he examines it suspiciously for a moment longer, hearing the soft whir of the invisible mechanics and wondering exactly how it was put together. Woodlyn had always been the more curious of the boys and the brightest with the way he was always inventing things for them. Quietly he sucks his bottom lip between his gapped teeth and chews it as the pendant spins between his fingers, he raises a dark eyebrow as the pendant's discs come to a stop and without a word he throws it against the stone wall; it breaks into several pieces, the stone core rolling across the floor and into the encroaching shadows. He is a lean boy with high, sharp cheeks and skin that has turned sallow from lack of sunlight – dark brown eyes that squint furiously and a mouth that is almost too thin, that seems to encourage the idea that, behind them, are rows of pointed teeth.

Ever since _he_ had left them it was common knowledge amongst the boys that Woodlyn had never been the same, seeming to sink further inside his own mind, after all, Woodlyn had been _his _favorite; now the boy is always locked away in the inner rooms where there was no light except from the little lanterns that surrounded his throne, which was no more than a large boulder that had once been used as the center of the Underground. Here Woodlyn had sat with wide eyes to listen to the bedtime stories from _him, _that was when he had been innocent and naïve and no, he refused to pretend that he was a little boy anymore – not with the way the skin around his eyes puckered and the surface of his chest grew hard, how his legs seemed longer and shoulders broader. He was no longer that simple minded boy who believed in fairies and flew high up in the summer sky, painted gold by the tendrils of the setting sun; when his bones were frail and brittle. No, he is different now and the changes scare him so much that he hardly ever leaves the inner room; he has lost all interest in the outside world since _he _had disappeared.

He places his bare, dirty feet on the ground and stands with shoulders squared; takes a deep breath followed by a noisy exhale. It feels like coming alive, he thinks, as he shuffles forward in the dimness to where the radio sat in the corner – just a small wooden box with dials and a little needle that jumped, reminding him of the way the mermaid had squirmed beneath his touch. There is a quiet, almost smug grin as he thinks about it and his tongue laps over his lips at the ghosting taste of her blood warm in his mouth. With an altogether skeletal hand he reaches up and fixes the wreath on his head, this rudimentary crown that he had made for himself to prove he was their new king – he had grown tired of those false idols and their promises to save them, tired of starving in the dark winter and pretending that someday the phantom from their past would return. Woodlyn had decided a long time to burn them down and so he had fashioned his crude laurels to wear like a Caesar from one of those stories in the Black Books that had always fascinated him as a _child_.

Woodlyn kneels before the radio, his bony shoulders curled forward and his bare knees scraping the stone because he never had gotten around to wearing pants – only those tattered knee-length trousers that had been useful in the summer, when the nights were balmy and the sun bright enough that he would have to shield his eyes with his hand. He imagines that he could still hear the hum of fairy dust as it settled on his skin and of when he had been told to think happy thoughts and oh, that feeling of lifting up from the ground to find the kind fingertips of the sky. A single tear rolls down his dirty cheek as he swallows thickly, decides crying is for babies and begins twisting the knobs until a beautiful static _pop_ sends a chill down his spine. It takes a moment before voices begin to surface and he knows that these are not the one he was looking for, that singular tone that sent his heart to racing madly in his chest. For such a long time he had tried to fix the radio, tinkering with it night and day, he had put his blood and tears in hopes that someday he would manage to bring it to life – and that was exactly what he had done.

He twists the dials just as he had the pendant, bottom lip slack and eyes resembling burning coals as the lantern light flickers in their depths, pinpricks of light that settle in the surrounding darkness. Woodlyn eyes the useless length of cord along the stone floor and he reaches out, takes it up into his greedy hands with a quiet consideration – it would be easy, he thinks, to destroy the radio. The static cracks and fizzes as he holds the cord, he thinks about what his newly acquired information might do to them, it almost seemed unfair to rip up their new found roots. He tilts his head as he releases the cord, puts both hands on the radio and lifts it up into the air to glare at its glossy surface; it would be so easy. He wants to throw it into the wall, watch it splinter and fall to pieces just like the pendant had done – then he could put it back together again and the cycle could continue.

"Woodlyn," there is a visible twitch when he hears his name and he turns to peer idly over one shoulder at the woman standing just inside the small circle of light. She is not beautiful to him, there are too many wrinkles on her bronze colored face and her mouth is too broad – her hair is two long braids and there are feathers twisted into the inky black locks. On her high cheeks are smears of dirt and war paint and maybe even blood, she holds herself with dignity despite the fact that she the last of a dying breed. Woodlyn tightens his grasp on the radio, his sharp features accentuated by shadow and lantern light so that he is turned into some contorted demon with his lips curled up into a smile.

"Tiger Lilly, what a surprise this is." He whispers to her in a hissing, breathy tone and turns his face away from her to stare at the radio. Its face glows a pale powder blue and the little needle flinches, he can hear the voices beneath the white noise and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "I see Jimmy found you."

Tiger Lilly clenches her hard jaw and clutches her furs tightly, eyeing the flecks of red on the stone walls that are a deep shade of rust now. She had not been this deep inside the Underground for a long time, it had changed, she was quite sure – it smelled of dead and dying things. Pelts of animals lay discarded in the corners and for a moment she can imagine another Woodlyn altogether – a boy who was small and shivering and lost, not this deranged tyrant who knelt before his blood drenched alter. She swallows the bile that rises up in her throat, behind her Jim shuffles restlessly as he wrings his pale hands and tries not to look directly at the boy crouched in front of them.

"Where are the others?" She asks in a husky tone.

"The other boys, you mean? Should I call them?" Woodlyn sits the radio back down on the floor and gets up with a little wince, his pale legs bloodied and bruised and smeared with dirt. He uses two fingers to hitch the fabric falling from off his shoulder back up into place and then leans a little to the left as he turns around to face them, trying to get a better view of Jim before he grins toothily. From around his neck Woodlyn lifts a crudely made flute attached to a dirty string and blows two shrills notes, which make Jim suddenly clamp his hands over his ears as if the noise itself causes him immense pain.

Mere seconds later there is the sound of many feet slapping against stone, raucous shouts and curses that make Tiger Lilly narrow her eyes on the boy standing across from her. He does not seem to notice the way she stands so concrete against him as if to say that she is not sure if she feels pity or hatred, maybe both rolled up into one. Quietly she eyes the flute around his neck, it is a replica of the worst kind and it stings her heart to see it being so abused – she wants to snatch it from his greedy fingers and wrap the string around his swan's neck to choke him. There is a little huff from her as the other boys file into the room and she is forced to look away from Woodlyn to survey them. What she finds is shocking, sends her reeling with eyes wide and mouth parted – she lifts her chin and eyes them cautiously. There are four of them beside Woodlyn and Jim, four boys who were not really boys anymore with their new found muscles and the barest hint of scruff on their chins. Tiger Lilly had not even noticed the way her consciousness pressed her backward away from them, away from the way they watched her with hollow eyes, until she bumps into Jim – until his chest presses against her back and it feels hard and warm and she feels heat rising up into her cheeks. She whirls around on him then, eyes fierce, and her mouth in a firm line that says he would be better off to move out of her way.

"Tiger Lilly! Tiger Lilly!" The boys bellow in unison and clap their dirty hands, their faces turned up to her in a way that says they are eager to hear what she has to say; it had been a long time since she had come to see them, their honorary mother. Woodlyn watches her with cold eyes, jealousy clearly written on his face in the way his mouth pinches and his thin hands clench at his slender sides; he shakes a little too visibly and she eyes him sharply, pupils like dagger points.

The one they called Lefty breaks from the others, he moves toward her with his hand out stretched to take the hem of her sleeve – he tugs it a little and her eyes snap onto him, all the air is pushed out from her body and she slumps a little. His face is still plastered with freckles and his red hair is a shaggy mop, he looks up at her with those lovely hazel eyes that seem to have aged centuries since their last meeting – when he had been small enough for her to pick up and sit on her hip and swing in circles. She tilts her head and feathers fall into her dark eyes, resembling some great bird surveying its prey. Tiger Lilly examines him coolly before she smiles down at him. "Tiger Lilly, have you come back? Are you staying this time?" His voice is tiny and hopefully like it had been when she had helped bandage his wrist when that lion had severed his right hand during a hunting trip. He had been so small then with tears in his eyes and sweat on his childish brow, blood spattered on his clothes and against his pale skin.

"Lefty," she hesitates, heart beat at the back of her throat. She can see their eyes staring at her and she flicks her eyes toward Woodlyn who grins like a hyena at her. "I'm staying," she says with a bit of conviction and watches at the way Woodlyn's mouth tumbles into a deep set frown.

"Then we should celebrate," Jim interjects and puts a pale hand on her shoulder, feeling the way it quivers beneath his touch. "We should have a powwow like ones we used to have out in the Neverwood."

To that the Lost Boys begin to cheer and throw hands up into air, their feet slapping against the blood dried stone floor and their voice raised high. Tiger Lilly grins a little as they swarm around her and prod at her furs, she almost feels more comfortable with Jim's hand on her shoulder, if it weren't for the fact that it also unnerved her. "Quiet, boys, we can't do anything without permission first!" Tiger Lilly looks up at Woodlyn with a nasty grin of her own and the boys immediately turn on him, begging him to let them out into the woods; out beneath the moon, dancing and kicking up the snow. He seems to go rigid for a moment as a blackness seeps into his eyes and he looks at her, silent words passing between them until he sighs – flicks his wrist and the boys roar in excitement.

Tiger Lilly watches as they file out of the inner room to pass down the stone hall and out into the crisp night, she moves slowly, shoulder to shoulder with Jim who has a delicate smile on his lips. "I'm glad you're back," he says as he takes her hand and squeezes it a little before running to catch up with the others. She pauses thoughtfully for a minute, listening to the sound of slapping feet and raucous shouts and she chuckles as she follows them out into the night.


End file.
